


A Different Kind Of Prey

by Ratbagqueen



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Anal Sex, BAMF Peter, Barebacking, Biting, Booby Traps, Consent Issues, Edge Play, Forced Seduction, Hurt/Comfort, Jackson Is a Douchebag, Light D/s, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Manipulation, Marking, Mating, Minor Character Death, POV Stiles, Peter is the alpha, Peter’s sleeping with the sheriff's son, Possessive Peter, Power Imbalance, Rough Sex, Sarcasm, Scent Marking, Scott is bitten, Shapeshifting, Sorry Derek but Peter got there first, Statutory Rape, Twisted love, Underage Drinking, creepy Peter is creepy, dub con, if the term sleeping applies, mild violence, murky minds, or heavy dub con/mild non con, stiles is not yet 18, v-neck appreciation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-09 11:17:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3247688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ratbagqueen/pseuds/Ratbagqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has accidentally challenged Peter. But for reasons known only to the seemingly dangerously unhinged Peter, he's ‘rewarded' rather than punished. Stiles soon discovers that Peter has his own opportunistic agenda, and has no qualms about sucking him into a maelstrom of need, want and destruction. Stiles must escape before this madness spins out of control. Before he stops wanting Peter to let go of him.</p><p> </p><p>  <em>Stiles is not a stupid kid. But his dad may have mentioned, on several occasions, that it would be in his best interest to face the world with a healthier dose of suspicion. In his defense, when Stiles opens the door to his dad’s case in point, he is slightly taken aback. It shows. But whatever, with his cocky smirk, leather jacket and five o'clock shadow, the guy standing on the porch is probably used to it.</em><br/><em>“Ah, you must be Stiles.”</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unexpected Guest

**Author's Note:**

> Even though I tell myself that I will come back to this fic at some point, I must advise against reading it in its current WIP-ish state. Sorry!

_“And then the wind just starts to moan  
Outside the door he followed me home”_

\-- Shivaree / Goodnight Moon

  


  


By the time Stiles leaves the vet practice, the drizzle that had wrapped the morning in a clammy blanket has grown into a severe autumn storm that doesn’t give a damn about it only being the tail end of September. The parking lot behind the clinic is already enveloped in moving shadows from the old oaks that surround it. Breaking into an awkward half-run, Stiles manages to reach his jeep without slipping on rotting leaves. He’d high five himself because this _is_ an achievement, but his body’s now definitely registering the piercing wind. It doesn’t help that his jeans and red converse sneakers are rain and mud soaked. 

Getting into the jeep should absolutely be his priority right now. After he’s clambered in, he takes a moment to wipe the water from his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt before he starts the engine.

“Ugh, this is just great,” he mutters, throwing up his hands in exasperation when he catches sight of the windshield. It’s covered in a sticky mess of yellowish brown leaves. “This is what I get for being a Good Samaritan?”

Last night, when he’d asked his dad to give him a shake if he slept through his alarm, Stiles had felt pretty accomplished for taking over Scott’s weekend shift at the clinic. It’d felt like killing two birds with one stone: doing his bro a favor and receiving a proud look from his dad for it. Never mind that he has to take a double dose of Adderall to somewhat pass as your typical employee. 

The harsh reality of being scratched open by an evil cat, reeking of disinfectant and driving a vehicle with broken heating makes him glad this is only a one-time thing. And he’s determined to make his friend fully acknowledge the extent of his current suffering.

Entertaining possible payback scenarios, Stiles switches on his wipers with a smile. One refuses to come up and the other gets stuck pointing upwards, as if flipping him the finger. This _fuck my life_ moment doesn’t fall into the same category as Finstock giving him pity-time on the field, and Stiles ending up eating grass in the 6th minute because... Jackson. It also doesn’t come close to Jackson finding out about Stiles’ crush on his girlfriend. And yeah, how about blocking those memories for the sake of his future self’s therapy costs?

Anyway, it’s Stiles’ life and he can feel fucked if he wants to.

And then he has it. Scott owes him an invitation to Lydia’s upcoming party to make _this_ up to him. He’s even letting him off the hook easily here; it should be a cakewalk if he gets Allison to set it up.

He shaved balls today. Which is probably something he shouldn’t mention at school, but it’s pretty cool actually that Dr. Deaton had trusted him with rabbit balls, before letting him watch the castration. He’d almost died of empathy, because whoa, that stuff hit a little too close to home. But if he had to choose between assisting with another castration or holding down the deceptively named Fluffy again, who’d been determined to permanently mark him, he’d choose the first. 

Things with Deaton had only gotten a little awkward during lunch, when the doc had brought up Scott’s health again. Stiles is pretty sure he had _uneasy_ written all over his face when trying to come up with a plausible explanation about a persistent virus, but at least he hadn’t blurted out that his friend had tried to feed him some ridiculous story about being bitten by a wolf.

Truthfully, Scott had hurt his feelings. He’s supposed to know that Stiles is one of the brighter crayons in the box, possibly even a yellow. He’s like a walking encyclopedia. That, and he has mad Google skills. So it didn’t take much to find out that Beacon Hills’ wolf population went extinct in the 1930’s. And since he hadn’t been able to resist asking, Deaton had confirmed his suspicions that only a rabid wolf wouldn’t shy away from humans.

Even if a lone wolf had munched on Scott, Stiles highly doubts it could be responsible for the two badly decomposing bodies discovered this summer that were covered in claw marks and bite wounds. He may have seen one or two of the crime scene photos in his dad’s study, not that he snoops or anything, and damn, for the victims’ sakes he hopes that those injuries had been inflicted post-mortem. His dad would never admit it, but his investigation into whether the killings are fatal animal attacks or homicides seems to have reached a dead end. Oh, his dad’s definitely not giving up. If the midnight calls he receives from the station and their increase of post-it convos are any indication.

All in all, Stiles doesn’t understand why his dad seems to hold a grudge against Deaton or something. The way he sees it, it’s not as if the guy could help not being able to identify the predator possibly responsible for both deaths. So until proven wrong, he is just going to write off his dad’s concerns as that omnipresent suspicion that comes with the job.

But yeah, it’s basically a crappy situation all around. It obviously takes a toll on his dad. The bags under his eyes speak for themselves. And Stiles kind of feels sorry for himself as well. Without having his dad and Scott around, he’s not much more than a lone wolf himself. By way of consolation, he promises himself to raid his dad’s secret drinking cabinet as soon as he gets home. 

Not that his dad’s an alcoholic or anything, but seeing as Stiles loves to threaten him with revealing his dirty little secret to Scott’s mom, who happens to have learned his medical file by heart, it’s an effective threat. For once, Stiles keeps his mouth shut though. The discovery is simply too sweet.

There’s no way he could convince his dad of this, but sixteen year olds have _needs_ too.

 

***

If he ever wants to break into his dad’s secret stash, Stiles needs to make it out of the parking lot. And in order to do so, his windshield needs to get cleaned. He takes a deep breath before throwing the door open against the storm, smashing it right into the girl who’s just about to knock on the driver’s window. She squeaks upon impact, tumbles backwards and lands in a muddy puddle. 

“Oh crap, fuck!” he exclaims. Stumbling out of the jeep, he stretches out his hand to help her up. “Allison! Shit, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, you did nothing the weather didn’t do already,” she says, in a faux cheerful voice. And that’s okay too; Stiles wouldn’t be able to pull off cheerful either with a cold, muddy ass. But god, she’s cute. Scott did good. Effortless true love: it’s both disheartening and hopeful. Bummer he’s not on Lydia’s radar, but the moment she picks up his signal.. Yes to a shot at what Scott and Allison have.

“Yeah,” Stiles looks up at the overcast sky, letting rain hit his face. “Scott sure knows how to pick his sick days.”

“You mean Scott’s not at the clinic?”

“No, did you…oh no, you walked all the way up here to see him after work, didn’t you? I took over for him because he’s not feeling well. It’s totally possible that he’s sleeping in his very warm and very soft bed right now, the asshole. Uhm, you guys do have phones though, right?”

Allison looks a little embarrassed. “Of course we have phones. But when he didn’t respond I thought I would go check on him. I live close enough anyways.” A little defensively, she adds; “We made plans to go see a movie after he got off work, so I figured I might as well meet up with him here.”

Stiles sighs inwardly. Scott better not be moping around with his fake wolf bite and playing video games without him, when he’s about to offer the Swamp Thing a ride home. And talk about great ideas! If Allison would roll around in the mud and be, like, super enthusiastic about it, she’d rock the meanest Halloween costume. It’s cheap and basically fuss-free. Stiles is actually really into this idea. With only one more month to go until Halloween, he may even go for it himself. And oops, he’s totally unconsciously staring at Allison’s ass.

Accidentally. But obsessively. 

And that just breaks so many Bro Code rules, he can’t even.

“Look, let me give you a ride home so that we can gossip about how _bad_ Scott sucks right now?”

“You would?” She beams at him.

“Sure!” And, because he won’t be able to take the combined glares of his dad and Scott if they find out that he’s shoved a girl into the dirt and then wrapped her in a smelly blanket from the trunk, he spreads out his jacket on the passenger seat. He doesn’t even cringe when she presses her sludge soaked butt into it.

 

***

 

After he’s dropped Allison off, the rain almost completely obstructs Stiles’ view of the road. Twigs and leaves whiz by his headlights like creatures from a haunted house. He’s not going to have a nervous breakdown about it or anything, but it makes driving stressful. 

He’s three miles from home when it happens. He’s given up fidgeting with the radio; it refuses to pick up a signal. But he’s cold and his shitty heating system has never been more annoying. So he fumbles with the control, cranking up the temp, while pleading “C’mon, c’mon, human turning into a popsicle here,” when he suddenly catches sight of something big and white just before it smacks into the windshield and bounces right off. Stiles hits the brakes so hard, his seat belt cuts into his shoulder. 

“Oh my god, now what?!” he exclaims, quickly unbuckling his seat belt. As he gets out of the jeep, he rubs the back of his neck and thinks that, yeah, whiplash could be a serious possibility here.

Then he sees what he’s hit and stops dead in his tracks, all physical discomfort momentarily forgotten.

On the glistening wet asphalt, highlighted by the beam of his headlights, lies a huge barn owl. The bird’s closed eyes are set within a perfectly white, heart shaped face. A face that’s currently resting unceremoniously on the pavement. The bird’s left wing is folded underneath its body, but the wind has gotten hold of the other one, spreading the entire forty something inches of snowy feathers open in a macabre mimicry of their beauty in flight. 

Stiles can only stare open-mouthed, dumbfounded.

He’d accompanied Scott on a trip to a bird rescue center an hour from Beacon Hills one Saturday in July. Life had been so _dullifyingly_ ordinary back then, that their visit now feels like a lifetime ago rather than two months. Stiles remembers being completely impressed with the majesty of the large owls. But he can’t recall any of them being the size of the one he’s apparently just killed.

A gust of wind penetrates his soaked shirt and snaps Stiles out of his bewilderment. He drops down on his knees in front of the bird. His first instinct is to freak out and feel sorry for the owl, then do nothing. His second is to scoop it up and get it to the clinic. But Deaton has surely locked up and left by now. 

Despite feeling clueless, after eight hours of taking care of animals, it’d be too weird to leave the poor thing here in the middle of the road and let nature run its course. Besides, his dad would no doubt be confronted with a smear of meat paste and feathers when he heads home from the station. Knowing his sense of responsibility, he'd call it in, and having it cleaned up means his dad would be screwed for at least another hour. Stiles doesn’t want to be guilty of that, but yeah, where to start? 

Suddenly, the owl opens its beak, moments later cracking open large charcoal eyes.

“Holy shit,” Stiles mutters, “talk about a thick skull. Is there even space for your brain left up there? I think there may be a crack in my windshield. Dude! You’re alive!”

Without further ado, Stiles breathes hot air on his numb, cold fingers before sliding them over the outstretched wing of the owl. He spreads apart the dirt smudged feathers with shaking fingers and then prods the flesh underneath. Nothing feels unusual. But really, who is he kidding here? It’s not like he can detect fractures or internal wounds; he once thought he had a tumor that turned out to be his solar plexus. 

But at least he’s trying to do what’s right. Dad always says it’s the intention that counts, even if the outcome isn’t exactly what you hoped for. He’s relieved to find that the dark splatters appear to be mud rather than blood. He blinks the rain from his eyes, before spreading the other wing too. Then he checks the bird’s neck, pressing his index finger and thumb along the vertebrae.

“No loose parts,” he thinks out loud. “Not that it means shit.” For all Stiles knows, the bird’s intestines could be an irreparable, bloody mess. That doesn’t seem likely though: by now the owl’s following his movements with its beak agape in a silent battle cry.

So he does his best to remember Deaton’s general instructions when handling an animal, and gently lifts the owl from the wet asphalt. Cradling it against his chest, he walks back to the jeep saying; “Yo, thick skull, and I totally mean this as a compliment, how about you keep Emo me company and I’ll see if I can maybe patch you up? Sound like a good deal to you?” And perhaps his words get lost in the howling wind, but it’s not like the owl gives a damn.

After yanking open the door with one hand, Stiles turns his already ruined jacket upside down and carefully lays the bird on it. When he starts the jeep’s engine and glances into his side view mirror, he’s startled to find someone watching him from the side of the road. He grips the steering wheel so hard his knuckles go white. 

Maybe it’s not a living thing, he tells himself, but a freakish man-shaped boulder. However, when he casts a quick look in his rear view mirror, before scanning the spot via his side mirror again, nothing’s there. 

So much for his boulder theory...

He breathes out carefully. “Well, that was weird, huh?” he asks his passenger, voice just a tad shaky. He wonders if the owl had gotten confused by the same phenomenon of eerily moving shadows. Could that be why it had crashed into his jeep? Aren’t animals supposed to have an uncanny sense of self-preservation? When Deaton had looked out of the window that afternoon, he’d mentioned that they usually retreat to deeper parts of the woods hours before severe weather strikes. From his jacket, the owl hisses warningly at him, its beak wide open.

“Great, hating on me already I see. And they always tell _me_ to shut my mouth before I catch flies... Whatever, a drink sounds about right.”

Stiles presses the gas harder than usual, eager to get away from the cold and storm and imaginary monsters.


	2. Spooked

_“If you close the door to your house  
Don't let anybody in”_

\-- Enjoy The Ride / Morcheeba

  


It’s true that you don’t realize what you have until it’s gone. Stiles is _well_ aware of that life lesson. This evening, it’s about small losses: as he pulls in the driveway, he misses the welcoming sight of a fully lit house. His dad’s held up at the station again. 

He parks the jeep as close as possible to the porch. He flicks on the dashboard light and cuts the engine. The owl watches his movements suspiciously.

“Okay, _fine_. So maybe we got off on the wrong foot. I apologize for the attempted birdslaughter, alright, and for calling your skull thick. And it was _inconsiderate_ of me. So can we please start over?” He points at himself: “Stiles Stilinski, total gentleman. Nice to meet you.”

Piercing, unimpressed eyes meet his. In fact, it’s eerie how much the pissed off bird resembles coach Finstock.

“Oh-kay, so it’s like that.” God, he’s grateful that the bird is still somewhat subdued. It’s probably the only reason why he manages to wrap it into his jacket without losing an eye. With the bundle cradled to his chest, he gets out of the jeep and into the groping fingers of the wind. He slams the passenger door shut with his hip and barely manages to avoid being knocked out by the enormous, wildly rocking fir tree when he hurries toward the front door.

His mom had teased his dad relentlessly about that Christmas tree, calling him a show-off. All hearsay, of course. Stiles wouldn’t know; he was only six at the time. But whenever his dad is caught up in one of his sharing moods, he listens with a focus that puts his little friend, Adderall, to shame. His dad had insisted he’d chosen a humble tree, a baby among giants. Nevertheless, the effort to drag it into the house had proven to be an exercise in futility, so his parents ended up planting it in the front yard. Stiles remembers being held high above his dad’s head, his arms stretched wide like airplane wings, so that he could drape the string of Christmas lights around the peak. He thinks he also recalls his mom being there, laughing and handing out hot chocolate, _maybe_? The three of them had decorated the tree the following four Christmases. 

But it wasn’t to become a lasting tradition: the sixth winter his dad hadn’t taken the lights out of the storage. Melissa McCall had.

 

***

 

The tune of The Imperial March wakes Stiles from his slumber despite the fact that it's nearly drowned out by the sound of rain beating against his bedroom window. He grimaces when he realizes that he's still wearing his mud-stiffened jeans, though at least he'd managed to strip out of his wet shirt before collapsing into bed. He rolls over and sleepily grabs his blaring phone off the nightstand. The owl follows his movements with, well, an owlish look from its cardboard box in the corner of his room. 

“Shh, it’s okay buddy, it’s just my dad. Who else?”. It’s only after he’s said it that he realizes just how pathetic it sounds.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. But googling for suitable owl snacks other than mice after his first day at a real job and then feeding the bird stretches the limits of a body more used to Saturdays spent playing video games in a semi vegetative state. Good thing his dad at least attempts to stick to his low-cholesterol diet and had chicken stored in the fridge.

Stiles accepts the call while keeping a close eye on the owl. It looks spaced-out, like maybe the warm room is making it drowsy, but who knows when it will decide to take those massive wings for a spin in his bedroom, and shit all over his laptop and stuff? And that’s a possibility he’s _so_ not going to linger on. He supposes he can always lock the bird in the bathroom if it becomes, you know, an Angry Bird.

“Dad! Afraid I’ll burn down the house?”

“If you were a better cook maybe,” his dad shoots back fondly. “I think the microwave can just about handle you. Just checking in to see if you made it home alright and if you found my note about the burgers?” The line crackles. His dad sounds far away.

“Yeah, I did. So are you having another pajama party at the station then?”

He doesn’t fool his dad. “I’m sorry, son. I can’t promise that you won’t be on your own for a couple more nights next week. The FBI are getting involved in those two possible homicides and I’m moving heaven and earth to avoid McCall being assigned to them. On top of that the Whittemores reported an intruder earlier tonight. The main road’s blocked by a fallen tree, so the drive alone took a good hour.”

“An intruder?” Stiles perks up. “Cool. Did ya catch him? You think he was after Jackson?”

“Try not to sound too excited, kid. It was most likely flying branches or a large animal that tripped the alarm, though David insists he saw a man on his lawn. This weather puts people on edge.”

“I know, right?! I almost drowned and… Oh, hey dad, do you think you could lend me some money so I can have the jeep’s heater checked out? It’s not like I want to whine, because Allison’s ass totally had it worse, but mine still kind of froze to death. By the way, uhm, we have an unexpected visitor tonight.”

“You brought Allison home?” The surprise in his dad’s voice is evident. And embarrassing.

“Erm, no, she’s sort of dating Scott, so don’t worry,” he replies. Or perhaps his dad worries because he _doesn’t_ bring girls home. Stiles is definitely not going to ask. Maybe one day, any day now actually, and this is not some silly daydream in which he denies Jackson’s existence, Lydia will come home with him after class and meet his dad and Stiles will have every right to be a smug bastard about it.

“I hit an owl. At first I thought it was dead as a doornail, but it’s bouncing back like a badass. You should see it, dad. It’s totally awesome. I did have to feed it your dinner though.”

“Well, I suppose I can let that slide this time. You can always order your old man a pizza tomorrow. The owl can stay for the night. Where have you put...no, never mind. I don’t even wanna know. But if you’re thinking about starting your own vet practice from home, we’re gonna have a talk.”

Yeah, well, he can’t blame his dad. The owl hadn’t been too happy with the dinner arrangements either. It had hissed warily at the piece of raw chicken in Stiles’ fingers. Backing off, Stiles had accidentally shoved the plate of chicken off the table. It had shut the bird up quite nicely, but the pieces had landed on the floor with wet flops and it had been a _disgusting_ salmonella bacteria party all over the kitchen tiles. He certainly wasn’t going to tell his dad about _that_. He’s decided to simply take the bird to the clinic first thing in the morning so that they can deal with his grumpiness there.

Right now, his guest is dozing off in his makeshift nest of towels, his eyes sleepy slits. Stiles pushes himself up from his bed, then wiggles his ass in an attempt to peel off his stained jeans, when the glow from the street lights outside his bedroom window temporarily diminishes. His head snaps up, and he only just catches the glimpse of a shadow retreating across the top of his window. 

He hops awkwardly towards it, seeing only his boyish self reflected in the glass: his pale chest and his tight jeans, pulled halfway past his boxers. He peers outside. Rain’s streaming down the glass, distorting his face, making his big, expressive eyes seem droopy. The street lights are softly glowing orbs in the night. At first, nothing appears out of the ordinary. But given his familiarity with this view of the street after living here his entire life, interruptions stand out like the All Time Low poster on his grayish-blue wall.

“Wait a minute..” he murmurs and presses his nose against the glass. There, only about thirty feet from his jeep, a sports car is parked on the side of the road. Stiles can just barely distinguish its shape in this weather.

“Huh, that’s weird...is that a Porsche? Where’s Scott when you need him? Geez.” He wipes the condensation from the window to have a better look, as he wonders who’d leave their car out here at this hour. This is not exactly the most vibrant part of Beacon Hills, and he and his dad don’t get many visitors. He would’ve noticed it immediately if it had already been there when he got home, and it’s parked too close to their house to belong to any of the neighbors. Of course, an unfamiliar car doesn’t explain the weird shadow outside his window, but it’s an easy distraction.

Stiles decides that the car must be empty. No one in their right mind would wait out a storm with their engine and interior lights turned off when within running distance of a house, right? The Whittemores’ trespasser comes to mind.

“Wow, isn’t this like the perfect setting for a horror flick? Holy crap, I better not be cast in a The Babysitter spin-off and get sliced and diced in the opening minutes. What if I’m in The Owlsitter without even realizing it, oh my god!”

Just when he glances nervously at his phone, because don’t these killings always start with a menacing phone call along the lines of _‘look out of your window, you see that Porsche? Now look behind you...’_ , there’s a loud crack. 

Stiles screams. He literally screams as something large whizzes past his bedroom window, the sound of it smashing to pieces on the porch below audible over the rain. He jumps back, hand going to his chest instinctively. He almost loses his balance due to his damn jeans.

“What the hell was that?,” he exclaims, staring at the window. “Like, what the actual fuck?”

His reflection looks as freaked as he feels. And keeps looking freaked as the seconds tick by.

“Uhm, yeah, so I should probably _unfreeze_.” Embarrassed, he looks over his shoulder at the owl’s corner. “Chillax, buddy,” he tries out a soothing voice. “That was _definitely_ only a roof tile.” The owl looks completely indifferent, as if ridiculing him. “Dissing my feels, aren’t you?”. He’s not going to take offense as it’s hardly a surprise that he’s spooked. This weather’s putting everyone on edge is what his dad had said. Besides, when it boils down to it, serial killers are people too. Obviously, they’re not going to frolic around on rooftops in the middle of a storm.

The car in front of the house is creepy though.... But he’s sixteen. He’s not going to call his dad for this.

So he texts Scott instead. 

Then he flails around aimlessly for a while. He closes the curtains because he feels oddly exposed or something. He kicks his jeans into the corner opposite from where the owl’s dozing, and contemplates grabbing a shower. On second thought, isn’t that the prime location for psycho killers in horror movies to trap naked, screaming virgins? Stiles is pretty sure that his blood against their own white-tiled bathroom would be any killer’s wet dream. Not that he thinks anyone would _kill_ to see him naked. His skinny body’s caught between growth spurts. Getting called cute by your best friend’s mom and being the school’s hot-ass muthafucka are two extremely different things. But he may still be irresistible murder material: he’s just proven that he can squeal like a pro. And boy, does he have the virgin part down pat.

He quickly washes up at the sink instead and changes into a tee and sweatpants. When his phone buzzes, he heaves a sigh of relief. Scott.

_Nope, never seen it. U sure it’s a black Porsche? I’m OK, figuring stuff out. Thanks again for today._

Stiles quickly types out his reply, then deletes most of it because he rambles. And Scott shouldn’t have to deal with his word vomit on top of the crap he’s already dealing with. He settles for a: _Think so. Weird but whatever. Dude, you owe me. I’m talking XXL curly fries, milkshakes, Call of Duty. The whole package. And Allison showed up knowing shit! Better make that a Call of Duty binge weekend._

_Bros can’t be more high maintenance than gfs. Negotiate your job description and talk over homework tomorrow night, your place?_

_There’s no job description for someone like me! I’m a friggin snowflake. U better be glad I still wanna be your bro after today. Hope Allison feels the same about U. CU at 6? Pizza!_

Stiles smiles, then yawns. It’s nearly midnight. When he crawls underneath the duvet, he thinks that maybe life isn’t so bad after all. He has rock solid trust in Google: he’ll figure out what’s up with Scott. And he’ll drop off the owl tomorrow morning. Still zero roadkills to his name, _woo_! By the time Stiles returns home, his dad will be awake and just about ready for pizza with Scott and him.

Nah, his life is pretty good, actually.

Someone rings the doorbell.


	3. Scotch For One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta sessions were brutal.
> 
> First Lo-Lo managed to forget Peter's name ("I'd clarify what thingy wants here"). Then apologized by confessing she's on Team Derek anyway.
> 
> EvilJenna mercilessly eliminated all my wonderfully quirky Dutchisms. She's like a female Peter so it's pretty huge that I'm now allowed one Dutch phrase per chapter (she wants you to know she's not to blame). See if you can find it...
> 
> I wouldn't know what to do without either of them. :')

_“Can't stop thinking must have been tripping this evening  
My mind is racing demons and all of my feelings are numb”_

\-- Dirty Little Thing / Velvet Revolver

 

Stiles is not a stupid kid. But his dad may have mentioned, on several occasions, that it would be in his best interest to face the world with a healthier dose of suspicion. In his defense, when Stiles opens the door to his dad’s case in point, he _is_ slightly taken aback. It shows. But whatever, with his cocky smirk, five o'clock shadow and leather jacket, the guy standing on the porch is probably used to it.

“Ah, you must be Stiles.”

“Uh, yeah?” It’s funny how calling someone by their first name breeds instant familiarity. Stiles opens the door wide. “You’re here for my dad? He won’t be back for another few hours. He’s working tonight.” He mentally facepalms himself for oversharing.

“That’s alright.” A casual smile. “I was just exploring the neighborhood after I recently moved back to the Preserve, but the storm caught me off-guard.”

“Tell me about it! Wow, so you live up in the woods? That sucks, man. I think the main road is blocked, and taking the old gravel road pretty much equals committing harakiri tonight. Oh hey, so that sports car over there is yours? I’m one hundred percent sure I haven’t seen it around here before. Or you.”

“It’s mine,” he flashes an easy grin when Stiles whistles, white teeth in stark contrast to his tan skin and dark stubble. “I’m Peter Hale.” 

Stiles grabs his extended hand after only a second’s hesitation. Peter’s grip is just a tad crushing, his hand remarkably warm considering the weather. It reminds him of the _ginormous_ energy bill his dad is going to get because he’s standing here acting like he just broke out of an egg, when he should be playing it cool.

“Right. I’m sorry. So, uh, did you want to come in and wait out the storm? I can call my dad in a while to see if the tree’s been cleared from the road.” He points his thumb over his shoulder and gives Peter what he hopes is a welcoming smile, but probably turns out stupidly goofy. Not his fault. The guy exudes confidence bordering on arrogance, even when casually standing on the doorstep with his hands in his jeans pockets. 

Peter looks like the type of guy that would seriously set off his dad’s sixth sheriff sense. If his dad were to come across him on the street he’d go totally hawk-eyed on him. 

But Stiles is not judging. If anything, he’s impressed. He has a hunch that Peter’s not one to experience bouts of spine-chilling, blood-curdling terror on a stormy night. Or at all.

And with a car like that, he’s not going to fly under anyone’s radar, right? If he came over specifically to abduct and murder a gangly sixteen year old and dump his remains in the woods for his dad to find, wouldn’t he have come better prepared? Like, in a van with tinted windows or something? 

It’s not like that outfit leaves much room for candy to lure him with either. Those jeans are _tight_. 

Not that Stiles is checking him out _like that_. No way. 

But it’s always good to be _observant_ and take in your surroundings. It might save your life one day. 

When Stiles closes the front door behind Peter, he remembers: “Hey, I think there’s a Hale at my school! Not in my grade though, so I can’t say I know him all that well. But you’re way too old to be hanging out with my crowd anyway. Of course my crowd mostly only consists of Scott, and maybe his girlfriend, but really just Scott. Oh, and not that I think you’re old as in _old_. But it’s obviously why we’ve never--”

This Peter Hale sure knows how to fill up a hallway. He’s not especially tall or broad, yet he somehow manages to be intimidating. Stiles is willing to believe it’s accidental. He reminds himself that looks can be deceiving. Like, his genius brain didn't ask to be teamed up with a sort of undercooked face either. But hey, it's totally better to be underestimated than the other way around.

So he’s going to ignore feeling like a cornered kitten in his own house. 

Instead, he focuses on that twinge of excitement: a second unexpected visitor in one night; is this what being popular feels like? Never mind that the first is an animal. 

Peter doesn’t respond, but looks at Stiles with an expression that comes close to disbelief. That’s okay. That’s a familiar reaction. He can work with that. So he clears his throat and makes shooing gestures towards the living room. “If you would just.. yeah, that way.”

 

***

 

“I’ll have a scotch, please.” 

Fuck yeah, Stiles could love this man. In the kitchen, he rummages through the cabinet under the sink and grabs the bottle of whiskey that’s hidden behind the cleaning products. He takes it, and two glasses, back to the living room where Peter’s claimed the larger of the two sofas. He cocks an eyebrow when Stiles places the glasses on the coffee table.

“What?” Stiles sputters. “Dude, don’t tell me you’re going all party pooper on me. I raided my dad’s hidey-hole for you!”

“Sounds like you’re in enough trouble as it is. And the night’s still young,” Peter adds with a smirk. He pours himself a generous amount of scotch and raises his glass to a glowering Stiles. “Have a Coke or Mountain Dew, or whatever sugary hell it is that you kids are having these days.”

“I can’t believe this,” Stiles huffs. As he retreats to the kitchen to grab a Mountain Dew, he throws over his shoulder, “So I take it you know my dad pretty well then?”

“Our paths have crossed a few times under unfortunate circumstances,” Peter drawls. “But that was years ago.” 

“He’s never mentioned you.”

“I’m sure he has his reasons, dear old John.”

 

***

 

Stiles glances at the clock and sees the hands creeping towards the two. He realizes Peter’s been visiting for over an hour. He’s also about to add a third to the crushed cans that are already on the coffee table. But thanks to his ADHD, caffeine never has the intended effect on him. At this point, even his unusual guest can’t chase away his sleep-dizziness anymore.

And Peter _is_ fascinating company. There are not many universes in which a BAMF would hang out with him, _force majeure_ aside. 

Annoyingly enough, Peter has laughed off his curious questions, but whatever history he and his dad share, the guy looks comfy enough on their sofa. Stiles had wanted to suggest playing a video game. But Peter's, like, thirty or something. Besides, he’d probably suck at it anyway. Instead, they’ve been drinking, following the weather forecast on TV and chatting. Admittedly, Stiles has been carrying the majority of the conversation. Monologues come naturally to him anyway, so no _biggie_. 

Peter _has_ told him he lives downtown though, but is temporarily back in Beacon Hills for family business. Asked Stiles if he knows his nephew, Derek, and yeah, he’s that other Hale Stiles had mentioned earlier. But he’s only seen him in passing on the school grounds a couple of times. 

Except for that one time he’d walked out of the locker room as Derek was coming in, shirtless, and he’d literally smashed face-first into Derek’s totally sweaty chest. It had earned him a look like he was a particularly repulsive exotic bug. That was sort of uncalled for because, really, it should’ve been Stiles who deserved to be grossed out. It’s not like he and Derek ever hang out with the same people, but since that incident, he’s made a conscious effort to keep his distance anyway. 

He’s also resisting the impulse to ask Peter about the fire. Because that would be like when people randomly bring up his mom and ask him how he’s _coping_. Well, before they decided to poke around in and dig up bleak memories, he was doing a pretty neat job actually, _thanks_. 

So, nope, he’s dying of curiosity, wants to know what family business Peter’s referring to as well, because as far as Stiles knows, Derek’s living alone out there in the woods, but he’s not asking. Either way, he’s always thought that anyone who’d decide to renovate and stay in the place where half his family burned to death has to have a few screws loose. 

Stiles makes a quick trip to the kitchen to hunt for Reese's Peanut Butter Cups; he’s been up so long that his stomach has started to growl. He devours the first one in three bites, too greedy to let the creamy texture melt on his tongue. That’s where the other one comes in. 

He notices that the wind no longer howls quite as ferociously around the house. Before returning to the living room, he pushes aside the curtains on the kitchen window to take a peek outside. Rain is still steadily falling, but it looks like the storm’s been lulled to sleep. 

Flopping back down on the sofa, it hits him that it’s almost as comfy as his bed. Now that the buzz of having a guest over has faded into the background, exhaustion has kicked in. He can definitely see himself sleeping here. In fact, the only thing holding him back is Peter’s presence. 

“Look,” he says with regret, “you’re great company, but I’m seriously going into zombie-mode here. I really need to crash. Also, I probably need to go check up on this owl that had a run-in with my jeep today. So yeah. Do you want me to call my dad about the tree now?”

“Actually, that is why I’m here.” He leans forward on the sofa, elbows resting on his knees and his hands folded under his chin. 

“Whaddayamean?” 

“You have something of mine. I came here to collect it.” Peter smiles absentmindedly, his expression turning almost weirdly tender. “Or I thought I did. I may have gotten sidetracked.”

“Dude, you’ve lost me.” Stiles knocks on his head. “My brain kind of turned to mush an hour ago.”

“Let’s see if we can remedy that then, shall we? The owl, Stiles. Not only did you come between me and my prey, you took it for yourself. There’s a price to pay for that.”

Stiles chokes on his last swig of Mountain Dew, coughing out a “hurts” and an “oh shit” as it sizzles torturously up his nose. The thing is, if he’d been capable, he’d snort-laugh at Peter’s comments and his deadpan delivery of them, convinced that he’s being _Punk’d_. But in one swift motion, Peter’s off the sofa and he’s not towering over Stiles exactly, but something subtly predatory has slipped into his posture. His eyes become calculating. 

Stiles isn’t sure why or how, but he had forgotten how intimidating the man looks. 

And what the _fuck_ is he talking about? What does it even _mean_? What it means, Stiles thinks with a growing sense of impending doom, is that Peter’s answered one of his unspoken questions. Apparently he hasn’t been _coping_ all that well with the fire after all. 

Peter confirms his thoughts by pulling up his upper lip slightly, exposing his teeth. Holy shit, did it really cross his mind only an hour ago that the dude has a charming smile? 

It’s _absofuckinglutely_ impressive how much one single day can screw him over.

Peter steps closer, his nostrils flaring as he inhales deeply. Stiles has a crazy feeling that Peter’s trying to sniff out his scent, learning about him and liking whatever it reveals. He does this on purpose. The guy’s toying with him and they both know it. 

He wants to tell him to knock it off. But there’s no mistaking Peter for a friend who’s just fucking around. And no one’s this good an actor anyway, right? 

Despite himself, his breath hitches.

“That’s it,” Peter says with a mocking smile that belies his cool eyes. His handsome face has grown harsh. “You’re a babe in the woods, Stiles. The sooner you acknowledge that, the easier this will be for you.”

“What the hell?” Stiles wheezes pathetically, all his senses suddenly flaring to life with an urgency that screams _danger_. He scuttles back against the cushions, eyes wide and fixed on Peter. 

He shouldn’t be overreacting, but the crappy thing about being the sheriff’s son is that you grow up with the knowledge that the sickest crimes you can think humans capable of are actually happening somewhere: every day, every hour and every minute, because your dad’s dealing with his share of them. With Peter amping up the weirdness and making a creepy reference to the woods, how can he _not_ think of the bodies that were dumped there? 

And _fuck_ , it’s not fair that his nose has to keep stinging like a bitch, too. 

“Not so sleepy anymore?” Peter’s grins are no longer casual. They’re all teeth.

“W...who _are_ you? I don’t get this at all.” His mind’s quickly catching up and working itself into a frenzy, momentarily kicking his ass for letting a stranger into his house on the one night that there’s no chance of his dad coming home before dawn. 

_Oh shit_ , his dad can never find out about this dumbass move. Best case scenario, he’ll make him sleep over at Scott’s whenever he’s working nights from now on. Scott’s mom is a great cook, but the painful truth is that he’d be the third wheel on Scott and Allison’s _luv wagon_ , and, yeah, like that won’t murder their friendship dead. 

_Wow_ , he thinks to himself. At least he’s staying on topic. Murdering stuff dead, huh?

“Oh my god, am I going to die? Are you going to kill me?” The words are out in a _whoosh_ before he can even begin to think them through. Before he can be smart and decide that it’s _probably_ not a good idea to suggest bloody murder to a dude who’s obviously unhinged. 

Just as it’s not a good idea to start hyperventilating in the company of one. But clearly Stiles’ traitorous body doesn’t give a damn.

From the other side of the coffee table Peter _tsks_. “Stiles, you idiot. Wouldn’t I offer a dying man, or a dying minor for that matter, a sip of Scotch?” 

It doesn’t make any sense at all. Except when there are no wolves or other animal predators and _Peter_ is the psycho who’s been cutting people up around Beacon Hills, then it makes perfect sense. 

And Peter is right about one thing: Stiles _is_ an idiot. For falling for Peter’s friendly act. For assuming that this man would want to hang out with him. 

Blood’s rushing in his ears. He gasps for breath. And dammit, wouldn’t that be the most ironic thing? That he’s in a room with a serial killer or whatever and he manages to pass out from oxygen overload, thereby cheating said serial killer out of the prospect of slowly and cruelly decapitating him while he’s still aware? From a purely theoretical perspective that would be, like, an insanely awesome stunt. 

In Stiles’ current circumstances, not so much. 

He’s getting lightheaded, and he still can’t seem to force himself to breathe through pursed lips to suck in less oxygen. He thinks it’s Peter’s face. Blue eyes too intent. Hungry. It’s throwing him off even more than the man’s words. Having his dad here would be really nice right about now. 

“Please,” he’s not even sure what he’s asking for. For Peter to grab him a paper bag to breathe in perhaps. To whisper assurances. To get his dad, to do _something_. 

But all Peter does is tilt his head slightly, nostrils flaring again as he watches Stiles struggle, wearing an expression of what can only be called fascination. 

Surely Stiles is not going to faint? He’s supposed to have overcome this anxiety thing that started shortly after his mom died. The black spots start dancing in front of his eyes in earnest now, narrowing his vision.

That’s when Peter attacks him.


End file.
